


The Wildling

by CavannaRose, MelyssaShadows



Series: The Battle Against Orora [4]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Elf Culture & Customs, Elves, Fantasy, Gen, Orc Culture, Orcs, Wakes & Funerals, Wilderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2020-10-27 05:15:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20754938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CavannaRose/pseuds/CavannaRose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelyssaShadows/pseuds/MelyssaShadows
Summary: Hawthorne had been born fae-touched in ages past, but the woods bid them reconnect with the world.





	1. Chapter 1

The waves crashed upon the shores of the wooded isle, whispering elemental songs as old as time. High in the branches of a tree twisted by age and weather, perched the wildest of the woodland elves. Fae-touched and feral, they had wandered far from their home, so far that they could not remember where it was. Years had passed, centuries even, but none of that mattered to the capricious creature. Some called them a druid, others called them a witch. Most spoke of them not at all, for to speak their name was to draw their attention, always a dangerous endeavor when dealing with those that were both ancient and unknown.

Certainly they were indeed both dangerous and capricious, but mostly the elf was bored. They had watched with a distant curiosity as those they once journeyed with succumbed to the gods. The half-orc they had wed, killed in glorious battle four hundred years previous. The savage shifter child, raised to adulthood, and eventually dying of old age. Their own twin, as tied to the seas as they were the trees, caught and slaughtered by humans. So many humans, good and bad, aging almost before their eyes so little did they live. So few of their former companions stood out in their memories, for the mind could only hold so much, and loss softened the hold of such events, making them dimmer as the centuries marched on. Their last companion, a gnome with brightly coloured hair and a crooked smile, had left them just fifty years ago. Too old to continue adventuring, determined to settle down and start a family.

Now they were alone once more, with only the trees and the beasts to keep them company. They had claimed this lonely isle for themself. Over several moons they had woven a home within the highest branches of the canopy, just as their people had for æons. They had not seen one like themself in half a millennium, and their fear was that they were the last. The last that spoke a language with no letters. The last to sing songs of making and unmaking. The last to whisper tales of the time before the gods. Occasionally thoughts such as these troubled them, but not for long. Soon a strange new beetle, or the falling of a leaf would distract them, and they would step away from their worries, shedding them like a snake sheds its skin.

There was precious little else they could do. Worrying about the passage of time and civilization would not halt its progression. This day they lay in the branches of their favourite tree, teaching it ancient songs. The boughs shook, whispering the melody back at them, changing the words. The forest worried. Worried that their caretaker had spent too long away from folks that walked and spoke like them. Many peoples had passed across the island, stretching back to before this patch of woods was separate from the mainland.

The trees coaxed a flotilla of turtles nearer, whispering their worries into leathery ears. The turtles in turn cajoled the wildling, tempting them down to the shore, tempting them deeper into the water. Caught up in the game, they were too far out to swim back when they caught on to the trick. Their island was vanishing in the distance. Four days at sea with the turtles, and no manner of threat could change their minds. They were charged by the woods, and they would fulfill their duty. The fae-touched creature needed to be out amidst those that spoke and danced and loved, they needed to live once more.

Bare feet touched down on sandy beach, and the turtles were away, sorrowed that they had caused distress to the wildling. They knew that they would be forgiven in time, for eventually the elf would forget their part in exiling the poor thing from the island. The turtles wished them luck, love and adventure, and carried themselves off to sea. On land once more, the wildling felt lost. Adrift in a way they had not when the flotilla was around them. They did not know the creatures here, or the peoples of this land. Even the trees were different, and they couldn't parse their speech, though as they journeyed along the coast they tried.

How long had they been secluded, out on their island, that even the trees spoke differently? Finally, as they followed the path made by strange hard earth, not traveling too far from the crashing surf, their last connection to the world they had existed in for ages, they heard a sound that was almost familiar. The cadence of speech, not beast-speak or tree-talk, but actually speech, like they had not used since their gnome had left them. The speech grew closer, the words and sounds familiar and yet not, and they hid, blending with the leaves and branches as only the fae-touched could. As one with the strange tree, they watched unfamiliar peoples pass below, their strange speech filling the air, followed by loud, booming laughter.

Once they passed by, the wildling followed back along their trail, moving to examine where they had come from. Eventually they encountered a large wooden edifice, tall as a tree, with a covering over the entire thing, leaving it enclosed like a cave with a boulder in front of it. Curious, they drew closer, parsing out the language, looking for similar sounds in their own memories. Humans. They were humans here in this strange construction... a building, with a roof. They vaguely remembered humans, and the fact that they were most comfortable when enclosed on all sides, like a rabbit in a warren. What an odd habit, when the sky above was so much more comfort. Curious, they drew close to a hole in the side of the building, only to find some invisible barrier between them and the interior. Curious, they ran their hands across the smooth surface. This, this was something new. So absorbed were they, that they didn't notice that they were in turn being noticed.

"Oi! You there! Hands off the glass! Whatcha think you're doin'?"


	2. Chapter 2

The wildling's face whipped around, slit-pupil eyes narrowing as they took in the braying human. He was large, far larger than her, but most of them were. His skin was weathered but pale, in that strange flesh tone that some races held when they spent too much time where the snow covered the ground. Fur sprouted from his face in wild streaks of gray, making them think of the beast-child they had helped raise when he had gotten his fur caught in a brier-patch and lost half of it.

"Elias! Who are ye terrorizin' t'day?" A second human approached, this one with long hair the colour of corn silk and skin even paler, hilighted by the night-sky colours she wore. Hawthorne turned to examine this one instead, preferring her voice to the antagonistic tones of the furred one. The yellow-haired human smiled at them, then turned to the other human to speak more of the maddening sounds that almost but didn't quite make sense. "Relax, the wee one is just curious. Haven't ye ever been curious, old man?"

The older human backed off, the young blonde returning their attention to Hawthorne. The elf kept their eyes on the humans hands, they remembered how tricksy the round-ears could be. "Are ye new here? M'name's Loire, have ye had anythin' ta eat, darlin'? Elias here makes the best breakfast one'll ever have."

"Who said I'm-"

"I did, Elias. Help a lost one out. The good luck'll be returned to ye." Night-sky girl smirks, nudging the man with her elbow before turning her attention back to the elf. "Whaddya say? Wanna enjoy a nice meal before the storm kicks in?"

Hawthorne dug through the holes in their memory, searching for a language like the one they were hearing. So many had settled in their brain over the ages, but not all of them. Which was this? It sounded like so much noise to them, but it had similarities to the gnomish language, at least they thought it did. They didn't remember the tongue as well as they liked, but they gave it a try. "Mitä kieltä puhut?" They winced at their own terrible accent. The odd twisting flow of gnomish did not lend itself to a tongue used to a more fluid language, worse still to a tongue used to no true language at all.

Their eyes darted between the two humans, trying to get a feel for the situation. The one with corn silk hair seemed to be asking some kind of question, looking out over the horizon into the storm forming in the distance. Hawthorne ventured a small smile, flashing their pointed canines. "Myrsky-lordi lähestyy. Kuuletko puiden laulavan Häntä varten?" That one came out better. Sounding more like a language, but it didn't quite match what the humans were speaking. They tugged their long, intricate braid around front, tugging on the plait as they tried to think. It was the worst part of having a brain so old, so many memories screamed inside their head, demanding attention whether or not they had value.

Hawthorne shrugged apologetically. Maybe in time they would recall the words they needed here, but for now they gestured, using their hands to their voice, they indicated the sky, then stood up straight and tall, making their face look fierce, and then brought their hands up and down, wiggling their fingers, before turning their face up to the sky and letting out a rusty little laugh, similar to the sound of tree branches rubbing against one another. They weren't sure if they had gotten their message across, but honestly, how much plainer could they make it?

"Az eső dühös. A Vihar Ura nem bocsátja meg mások hibáit." Hawthorne paused, tilting their head to one side. That wasn't gnomish, orcish perhaps? They had not spoken the language of orcs aloud since the last day of their once-mate's funeral rites. He had died in glorious battle, and they had honoured him by the customs of his people. Three days it had taken to consume the flesh of his body, and they were proud that he was so big and strong, despite being half human. It had been a glorious tribute, and the battle had been well fought as well. Their brow furrowed. They had not wielded a weapon that day, but instead used their magic as their blade, cutting swaths through the hordes of the Lich-King, while their mate had raised his mighty battle axe and roared his challenge to the sky.

Lost in the reminiscing, unused to being around other souls who might take offence, they smiled to themself, enjoying the reverie. Their hands came together, weaving their fingers in ancient gestures as they saw the clash in their head. The Storm Lord had been angry that day too, rain and lightning streaking across the field. They had harnessed it, catching a bolt as it fell from the sky and sending it straight into the skeletal chest of Salvos Torne. Salvos had once been Laurel, a companion of Hawthorne's youth. Defeating them had been neither vengeful nor vindicating, it had simply been a task necessary for the survival of the Outpost their mate had called home.

As their fingers twined, the images they were picturing appeared in the air between the elf and the two humans. Scenes of the battle, of the way the wildling channeled the elements, of the horrific visage of the Lich King, the fall of Salvos Torne, their shout of triumph, only to turn and watch their mate felled on the battlefield by a ghoul, venom dripping from its fangs. Their race across the fallen bodies of foe and comrade alike, their desperate attempt to call magic that had been drained in their battle. Victory and defeat. Glory and heartbreak. All were one.

They shook their head, clearing out the visions dancing there, and looked up, curiously examining the last image remaining in the air. The pyre where their mate's bones were burned, a salamander dancing in the flames as they stood at the edge of the cliff, facing away from the body. Their fangs flashed again in a strained smile. "Egy nagy harcos befejezi útját. Légy békében."


	3. Chapter 3

Their mate had been a mighty warrior, even among his own people. The orcs were strong, but brutally short-lived. The wildling had known this, but once upon a time they had been young. Too young to understand the pain that came from loving those that were gone so soon. The bloody nature of their profession was not known to be conducive to extending that life either. At least he had not lived long enough to grow old and feeble while they stayed young. Virtually untouched by the passage of time even now, so many years in the future. Hawthorne would never have to see the love in their mate's eyes turn to resentment, but the loss stayed with them regardless, no matter how many years went by.

They had been so young, that first meeting. He, a mere one and twenty years. At his physical peak. Strong. His skin the fierce green of oxidized copper. His long hair dark as tree bark and kept in a wild queue down his back. The wildling had been under two centuries. An infant, really, in the grand scheme of their life span. Hardly old enough to be out in the world on their own, never mind worrying about things like mating. They had run away from home, though. Abandoning the hidden valley where their people lived in peace and secrecy. They didn't want to tend the trees and be a mere whisper on the winds of the world. They had wanted to experience it. They hadn't known what they were asking of the world, or the strange and twisted ways their Goddess would choose to grant their wishes.

They had left in the dead of night, not even saying goodbye to their nearest and dearest. Laurel would understand. They would have to. Hawthorne needed to fly free. To live life outside the confines of their small tribe. They had stumbled though, come up in the wrong place. They had found themselves in the company of a troupe of surface drow, all males. They were not the vicious, brutal slavers that the stories made them out to be. They had taken Hawthorne in, taught them how to use a staff, and helped develop their magic. They had learned so many things amidst the drow, until one day strains of a strange music had drawn them away, and the drow, too, were left behind. It had not been many years. Possibly a decade or two. It was enough though, and Hawthorne had grown much over those years.

That was when they had seen their first humans. Soft, pink creatures with hair on their faces and strange, boisterous voices. The sounds of music and laughter had drawn them in. Only upon coming closer did they discover the odd nature of the group they had found. They traveled, much like the drow, but this group was made of a variety of strange people. Darklings and other fae, half-elves and dwarves. Strange wolven and feline creatures that walked on two feet. Humans, and tiny colourful gnomes. Then, out of the darkness, he came. Green like the forests of home, rippling muscles and with fascinating yellowed tusks jutting from his lower jaw. He had been the most beautiful thing they had ever seen. He bore more scars across his chest than any one being Hawthorne had ever known, and he had a story for how he had earned each and every one.

They had not gotten along at first. He had challenged their right to be amidst these adventurers who had formed a bond by shared experience and shed blood. Hawthorne had been entranced. By his ferocity. By his devotion. They had challenged him to battle. One on one. Hand to hand. No magic. No weapons. He had laughed at their audacity and accepted the challenge. Face to face, his strength was staggering, but they were fast, and as they had learned to heal they had learned of where a person's weaknesses were. In a shocking turn of events they had beaten him, and he had finally acceded their acceptability, and gifted them with his name.

Krart. A strong, simple name, to go with his fierce, simple stories. They spent hours together exchanging those stories. Sparring, laughing, and eventually making tentative forays into lovemaking. They were each other's firsts, and as they lay tangled together beneath the Goddess Moon, he had pledged himself to Hawthorne. Til the end of his days. How exciting and romantic he had been, and they had been fervent in returning that pledge. It wasn't until years later they realized exactly how long those days would be, once Krart had passed.

Side by side they fought, helping the ragtag group carve out a permanent home. They called it the Outpost, and it was far in the wilds. The lands, however, belonged to someone. It just happened that who exactly that someone was, was up for debate. Two barons claimed the land that the Outpost stood upon, but the fierce group refused to accept an overlord. They had cleared out kobolds and goblins and a strange influx of the undead, and the Outpost was their home. Negotiations were made, and a spokesperson was chosen from amidst the town. For reasons Hawthorne would never quite understand, they were chosen to speak for their myriad peoples. A side was chosen, a battle to be fought, and the end result being they would get to keep their village, but it would belong to one of the barons.

The civil war was cut short, however, when Salvos Torne rose up. Such a small settlement would rarely interest a Lich King, but there were old hurts buried deep. Hawthorne was not the only wildling to leave their village, but not everyone who left had lived as lucky a life as they had. Some had fallen afoul of dark sorcerers, some had gone even further. Torne's face had been so familiar, and he had driven the battles relentlessly, time and time again, to land them at Hawthorne's feet. Krart was always their staunch protector. They worked deep and dangerous magics to guard their people. Summoning elements and even healing with parts of their own essence. 


End file.
